


Changing One's Stars

by wanderingaesthetic



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - For Want of a Nail, F/M, Gen, Harry Potter - First War Fic, M/M, Multi, Regulus Black Lives
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-08-27
Updated: 2015-09-30
Packaged: 2018-02-15 00:23:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 19,136
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2208654
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wanderingaesthetic/pseuds/wanderingaesthetic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Regulus Black faced death in order to bring about the Dark Lord's demise, but a house-elf's disobedience creates a world very different from the one we know. The First War continues and the Order must defeat Voldemort without the help of a chosen one. AU.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Disobedience

Regulus Black appeared on the doorstep of number twelve Grimmauld Place. He rested one shaking hand on the doorknob for a few seconds longer than strictly necessary for it to recognize his blood and let himself in. He took three quite steady steps into the hallway before his memory caught up to him: a scream, the words of it lost in hysteria and the high pitch of the young voice, little fists pounding on his thigh…

_I ran. I ran. She’s dead. He’s dead. They’re all dead. I ran._

The completeness of what that meant struck him, and for the first time fear joined his horror and revulsion. The familiar hallway spun and the old ugly troll leg rested on the ceiling for a moment before the world righted itself and Regulus’ stomach twisted. He ran for the hall bathroom, fell to his knees before the toilet, and retched with his mask still dangling from one ear. When he had emptied the contents of his stomach he leaned, gasping, on the cold black porcelain. He knelt shakily for a few minutes before he could regain the sense to tear the mask the rest of the way off.  It was flecked with vomit. Regulus snorted at the statement his digestive tract had made regarding his choice of political affiliation.

He set the mask in the sink to wash it, but his hand stopped on the spigot and moved to the wand sheathed at his thigh. With a scowl, a jab, and a twist of will he set the thing ablaze and stared as flames consumed the white cloth skin and caught on the wood beneath. He had carved this himself, with magic, before he had even been marked. It fit the contours of his face perfectly. His imagination placed his own steel gray eyes in the empty sockets, licked by flames. He was finished. He was burning away his past, his sins, his future.

 He removed all trace of the mask with a _scourgify,_ but continued to stare, lost, into the polished basin _._ He could not say how long he stood there until, with an impulse and a swirl of robes, he made his way down the dark hallway and the stone steps that led to the kitchen. He felt his way from chair to chair, slammed the pantry door open and lit his wand. The sudden light glared off bottles and jars, blinding him but not helping him find what he was looking for. He scanned the shelves and started shifting things aside, pouring his fear and revulsion into the search and caring little if containers broke as glass clinked together. He let out a roar of frustration and was fighting the urge to shove the lot of it to the floor when a voice spoke hesitantly behind him.

“Is Master… looking for something?”

Regulus tensed entirely. His heart hammered against his ribcage, but the house-elf’s voice brought him back to a world containing things other than his self-disgust and panic, the world he had existed in only a few hours earlier. He took a long, slow breath.

“The firewhiskey, Kreacher, please.”

Kreacher apparated with a pop to the top shelf, grabbed the sought after bottle with both hands, then apparated back to Regulus’ feet.

“Thank you.” He took the proffered bottle, not looking at the blank yet somehow disapproving look he knew Kreacher had on his face. He made his way to the kitchen table, waving his wand to light a fire in the grate as he went. He sank into a chair and summoned a shot glass, which arrived in front of him spinning on its rim like a dropped coin. He stilled it then filled it to the brim with the amber liquid. As he held the glass to his lips, some logical corner of Regulus’ brain told him that pouring liquor over his already roiling stomach was unwise, but he silenced that corner and upended the glass. He nearly gagged as the fiery liquid hit his throat, already raw from stomach acid, but managed to swallow it in two gulps. The fumes seemed to waft through his sinuses and into his brain, bringing a detached sort of clarity to his situation. He had run from an assignment. Two other Death Eaters had seen him do it. They were probably reporting to the Dark Lord on the subject right now. Regulus sighed, leaned on the table and rested his forehead on the heel of his palm. Kreacher climbed into a chair across from him and watched him with some concern, but said nothing.

It was customary for a disobedient or errant Death Eater to be given an hour to beg for forgiveness from the Dark Lord. After that, the hunt would begin. He had about half an hour. He could still do it, prostrate himself before the Dark Lord, face the Cruciatus Curse and possibly worse tortures. He would be stripped of what little rank he had, but he would be alive and free as any Death Eater ever was. He could do it. He could go now.

And continue doing exactly the sort of thing he had run from tonight. Until an Auror or an Order member caught up to him, or worse, until they won the war. Then he could do it _forever._

Another wave of nausea hit him and he buried his face in his hands. No. He could not. He would _rather_ die. Upon the realization his pulse, which had been fluttering ever since he had looked into that little boy’s eyes, began to slow to its usual tempo. His muscles relaxed, their tension replaced by a horrible weariness. _I’ll never sleep again._

Regulus stood to take the only actions available to him. He would leave Mother a note, then leave the house so that she would not have to see the mess they would make of him. He numbly mounted the stairs, to his room, lit a lamp, and sat at his writing desk. He opened the drawer to retrieve his stationery, shifting aside the locket Aoife had given him when they had dated briefly in sixth year.

As he was pulling a piece of parchment from the drawer he stopped suddenly. He reached back inside and snatched the locket.

_I hold and ace._ He let the locket dangle by the chain. He watched dazedly as reflected lamplight danced across his bed curtains. His mind continued, slightly hysterically.   _Actually, I hold a locket._ He cackled with manic glee before he entirely realized what that meant.He gripped the edge of his desk and forced himself to breathe slow and deep and work out logically the steps between here and where he had just jumped on instinct. Yes. Yes he could do it. He would die, of course, but he already determined that in the kitchen and this was _so much better._ He grinned and opened the locket to kiss the picture. _Dear, wonderful Aoife._

He penned a note, not to his mother, but to someone else. He ripped the parchment in two, leaving the half with the watermark of the Black crest on his desk and folding the other half into a tiny square. He removed Aoife’s picture and replaced it with the note. He snuffed his lamp and closed the door behind him before hurrying down the stairs as quietly as he could.

In the kitchen, Kreacher was putting away the glass he had used earlier. Regulus felt a pang in his chest at what he was about to ask the faithful little house-elf to do, but said ,“Kreacher?”

“Yes, master Regulus!” The little elf snapped to attention. Regulus knelt beside him.

“Do you remember the cave you visited with the Dark Lord?”

Kreacher slumped, and his tone was slightly offended as he answered, “Master ordered Kreacher never to speak of…”

“You don’t have to speak of it, Kreacher,” Regulus said gently. “Just… can you take me there?”

Kreacher bit his lower lip, but nodded.

“Then do so, please, now.” Regulus held out a hand to him. The elf took it, and if he found his master’s request odd, he did not show it.

The sensation was different from human Apparition, more like being blown into a bubble than being sucked through a straw, but they arrived just the same, in cold, damp air, Regulus still kneeling, on a flat wet rock surrounded by water. A shear wall of dark stone rose out of the water nearby them. Regulus smelled salt, and as he stood a wave crashed into a rock formation behind him, startling him. He turned his face out to sea. The moon was near full, and its reflection fragmented on the rough surface of the water, creating shifting shadows of the rocks that surrounded them. The place had a treacherous sort of beauty, and for the first time tonight Regulus felt a pang of loss for his short life. He had left no message, said goodbye to no one. Few would mourn him, certainly not his fellow Death Eaters, his former friends. Aoife might, if she heard, though they had not spoken since graduation. Mother would.

And Sirius, Regulus realized with some surprise.  Sirius had always shown that he cared by making a nuisance of himself, and would likely curse his brother in the same breath that he lamented him, but Sirius would mourn. Irritating as it was to admit Sirius had been right all along, it was also comforting to realize that Sirius would understand why he did what he did now, why this one act of defiance was worth his life. He thought back to their brief conversation at his father’s graveside. Even then he had begun to regret his role as a Death Eater, but had decided to wait it out, to live and keep his misgivings to himself. Sirius had offered him the Order’s protection. Why had he not fled then? Death was certain now, but perhaps if he had had time to plan…?

He shoved aside his regrets and turned to Kreacher, who was clutching himself against the cold. “I need to retrieve the locket the Dark Lord hid here,” he said simply, reluctant to fully explain his intentions. “Show me the way, please, Kreacher.”

Kreacher pointed to a dark crevice in the rock face before them. There was some distance between it and them; they would have to swim it. Regulus slipped off his cloak. The fine material fell to a dark puddle at his feet. He considered removing his shoes also, but thought better of it. If he was to die he wanted to do it in something resembling style, and not in his sock feet. He took a deep breath to prepare himself for the plunge, but let it out as a thought occurred to him.

“Kreacher, do you know how to swim?”

The house-elf shook his head miserably. Regulus squatted beside him. “Climb onto my shoulders.”

Kreacher’s eyes widened further at this breach of protocol, but he did as told. Regulus waited for the elf to scramble up his back and swing his little legs over his shoulders before he slid himself as gently as he could into the cold water. Kreacher’s position forced him to swim in an awkward dog paddle, but it did not take them long to reach the cave opening. Regulus swam into darkness until his feet scraped rock. He stood, waded out of the water, and lifted Kreacher off his shoulders to set him down at his feet.

“Will we need to swim any further?” Regulus asked, and his voiced echoed faintly. “ _Lumos.”_ The light from his wand revealed a low-ceilinged cavern and cast long shadows of the young man and the house-elf on its walls.

“No—Master—Regulus,” Kreacher said, shivering. Regulus bent and performed a drying spell on the elf. He did the same for himself, and, finding it insufficient, added a warming spell. Even warm and dry, Regulus felt a chill run up his spine. They were certainly in the right place, the unnatural cold of powerful dark magic permeated the air. He repeated the warming spell for Kreacher.

“Thank you, Master Regulus,” Kreacher said in a small voice.

“Not at all,” he replied absently as he raised his wand to look about the apparently empty cavern. “Where next, Kreacher?”

“There,” Kreacher rasped and pointed one long finger to a point on the wall to their right. Regulus walked to where he pointed, but there was nothing but blank rock wall. He ran his hand over it, and another chill ran up his spine.

“The Dark Lord used… blood,” Kreacher said quietly.

“Ah.” Regulus waved his wand to conjure a small silver dagger. He turned it over and tested the balance, taking a moment to admire his own handiwork. Kreacher solemnly held up an arm. For a moment Regulus did not understand.

“No, no.” Regulus couldn’t help laughing. He patted the little elf on the head. “Good old Kreacher.”

Regulus drew a red line across the back of his left hand. The blade was so sharp he hardly felt the cut. He sheathed the knife next to his wand and rested his bleeding hand against the wall. For a moment an archway of brilliant white light appeared. Where the light shone the rock wall disappeared, revealing a doorway cut out of the rock. Regulus conjured a swath of gauze, which he wrapped around his left hand. Kreacher looked up at him, his eyes wide and fearful.

“Lead the way,” Regulus urged.    

Kreacher walked through the arch. Regulus followed close behind, holding his lit wand high. The place was so vast that Regulus thought for a moment that they were back in the open. His wandlight did not reveal a ceiling, but the night outside was clear, and there was no sign of a moon or stars here. The light did reveal an underground lake, its surface black and perfectly smooth, its end nowhere in sight. The shore was not even two steps from the entrance. Regulus skirted it carefully to follow Kreacher, who had gotten a few steps ahead. After some distance Kreacher stopped.

“There was a boat…here,” Kreacher said when Regulus had caught up, but no sign of a boat existed. For a moment Regulus had a strange hope that he had made an error, that he could not retrieve the horcrux and would not have to die in this dark place, but then the obvious occurred to him.

“Was it invisible?” Something in the atmosphere of the place compelled him to speak in a whisper.

“…yes, master Regulus.” Kreacher whispered as well. “The Dark Lord tapped… something.”

Regulus sank to his knees and groped around the area with his left hand. He found nothing. He was reluctant to douse his wand, small deterrent though it was to what lurked beneath the water, but he did so in order to search with both hands. He searched in utter darkness until his eyes adjusted and he realized with some comfort that there was a faint green glow coming from somewhere in the middle of the lake. He continued to grope on the rock floor until finally his fingers fell on something metallic, apparently a post. He ran his hands over it until they came upon what seemed to be a thick chain, corroded and cold. He gave it a tug and it began to slide through his fingers of its own accord. Its links shivered into a pile, clinking together softly. The water near them moved almost imperceptibly and something unseen arose to the surface with the tiniest of splashes. Regulus stood to see a dent in the water the size and shape of the bottom of a very small boat. He swallowed grimly. Even if he was able to undo the Dark Lord’s spellwork he had no chance of making the boat visible without knowing what spell was used to make it invisible. It would still transport them, but riding in an invisible boat would have been eerie at the best of times. Nevertheless he reached out to the space above the dent in the water. His hands hit something decidedly solid and wooden and the dent in the water shifted slightly. Very carefully, he felt the edge of the boat and stepped in. He lowered himself onto what his mind told him was the surface of the water. With a lurch, the boat began to move. Kreacher let out a yelp. Regulus grabbed him, and Kreacher practically clawed his way up his arms so as not to be left behind. Regulus felt the space in front of him with his feet to make sure there was boat there before he set the quivering house-elf down.

They glided on silently. Something bumped slightly on the bottom of the boat and Regulus looked down before he thought better of it. It was a woman, or rather a woman’s body, floating limply in the water. Her clothes were rotting rags and her long blonde hair streamed behind her, catching on the invisible surface of the boat. Only invisible wood stood between her and Regulus’ left hand. He imagined the touch unwillingly, clammy and unnaturally cold. He shut his eyes tightly.

“Kreacher, you should close your eyes,” Regulus warned faintly. The house-elf moaned in response. Regulus suspected that Kreacher had already had his hands over his eyes, and didn’t blame him.

After what seemed like a very long time there was another bump.  A scraping sound told them that it was not another Inferi. Regulus opened his eyes to see a tiny island. The green glow came from a basin atop a pedestal at its center. _Birdbath of doom,_ Regulus thought hysterically, but did not laugh. He stood shakily and stepped carefully out of the invisible boat. He helped Kreacher out as well and knelt next to him when he had gained solid footing.

“There is something I need you to understand now.” Kreacher’s globular eyes were even wider than usual, but he nodded. Regulus unlatched the locket around his neck and handed it to the house-elf, who took it, but looked at him questioningly. “I am going to drink the potion. You must force me to drink all of it, like the Dark Lord did to you.” The elf looked stricken, his ears drooped and his little mouth hung open. Regulus went on quickly. “Then you must do something extremely important. You must retrieve the Dark Lord’s locket from the bottom of the basin and replace it with mine. Then you must leave.” Regulus paused, reluctant even now to give the order. “Without me.”

Kreacher opened his mouth and closed it, trying to find a way he might have misinterpreted. When no way was found he squeaked wordlessly, and tears ran down his face. “Wh-what… will Mistress say…? When she finds out Kreacher has left her son… her only son, to die in such a—“

“Mother must not find out, Kreacher,” Regulus said sharply, though he felt horribly cruel as he did so. “I order you not to tell her, or anyone else of the family.”

“Kreacher… Kreacher… Kreacher… CAN’T!” the little house-elf wailed. Then, stricken at what he had done, fell to his knees and began to scrape his head against the rough rock floor, moaning “Kreacher can’t… Kreacher can’t… can’t… can’t… can’t.”

Regulus shushed him with some panic as the elf’s moans echoed weirdly about the cavern. “Quiet, Kreacher, please, and stop punishing yourself. I know you don’t want to do this, but you _must_.” Kreacher stood, but continued to sob. Regulus knelt beside the little elf and held up his chin to look him in the eyes. “For me, please, Kreacher. I don’t want to die, but this is all I can do. Don’t ruin this for me. _Please._ ”

Kreacher swallowed and continued to weep, but nodded earnestly. Regulus let out a breath he had not realized he was holding.

“There is one more thing.” Kreacher nodded. “And this is the most important part. You must destroy the Dark Lord’s locket.”

“Yes—Master Regulus.”

“Alright. Let’s begin.”

Regulus strode to the basin. Kreacher pattered behind him, wiping at his eyes and nose as he went. Regulus glanced into the green glowing potion then drew his wand to conjure a cup. He was going for a goblet similar to the goblin wrought set at Grimmauld Place, but conjuring was power-intensive magic, and he only managed a dinted vessel of some dark, indeterminate metal. Realizing that Kreacher would be unable to reach the basin when he lost his sensibilities, he drew upon his magic and concentration once more to conjure a simple wooden stool for him to stand on. Kreacher climbed atop it without being ordered, the chain of his Master’s locket wrapped around his wrist.

Regulus dipped the goblet into the basin. He lifted the full cup to his lips and with only a moment of hesitation began to drink. The potion had no flavor, only a slight chalky texture. He gulped, and he remembered…

_He had known nothing about the people in the house except that they were sentenced to death. He walked quickly to keep up with Casimir Mulciber’s long strides. The other two followed close behind him. The Death Eater directly behind him was an older man, a fact he only presumed by the slight wheeze in his voice. Their rear guard’s age he could not tell, and though his voice was maddeningly familiar, he could not place it._

_The tall grass they had been walking through shifted suddenly to well kempt lawn ahead. Mulciber stopped and signaled for the others to do the same. He spoke._

_“Kakolukia.”_

_Regulus had no idea what the word meant, only what it signified. The people in the house were wizards. Wards keyed to a password were easier to make and harder to break than those set only to let in certain people, but that mattered little if  the password were found out through torture or espionage._

_Mulciber turned to his allies. The plan was already established, but Mulciber said, “With me, Black.”_

_The use of his surname set his teeth on edge. Though he did not know the names of the two men behind him, they now knew his. This could mean that Mulciber was being uncharacteristically careless, but more likely the others already knew his name, which meant he was being watched and tested by these three. He was being considered for promotion. The fact did not please him._

With a shake of his head Regulus came back to the present. Kreacher had spoken of nightmarish visions, and though the memory of tonight was not a good one he had emerged from the vision had before the moment he dreaded. He did not know how much time had passed. He was very thirsty. The goblet was empty. He dipped it into the potion, and drank.

_He had known nothing of the people they were to kill, had not even known that they were wizards. He had advanced with a certain detached numbness, habitually wiping his boots on the doormat before entering on the hem of Mulciber’s robes._

_No alarm had been raised. The house was completely dark. Regulus and Mulciber entered the kitchen through the back door. The others entered through the front, almost simultaneously, exactly as planned. Mulciber took his post at the door, guarding against any escape. Though Regulus could not see, he knew the older Death Eater was doing the same at the front door. Regulus moved forward, silent and wary, and met his counterpart at the door to the living room. He could only see his white mask in the darkness. It almost seemed to glow. Regulus’ mask was featureless, as were most Death Eaters’, a plain mold of an average human face with blank sockets. The other Death Eater’s mask had overly large cheeks and eyebrows and the mouth was open and grinning in an exaggeration of a laugh. It nodded at Regulus, and in silent agreement the two started down the hall._

Regulus was still dimly aware of the cavern around him, but was not sure whether he took the goblet he drank from from the Bones’ hall table, or from Kreacher’s hands. It mattered little. He drank.

_They turned a corner, and it was here that things went wrong. Before them was a set of stairs. At the top of those stairs was a little girl in a white nightgown, carrying a candle that was blinding to the two Death Eaters’ night adjusted eyes. The girl gasped and dropped the candle. Regulus shouted out a curse to bind her. The spell caused her to fall against the handrail, but did not silence her._

_“Mummy! Daddy!” she shrieked as she fell._

_“Silencio!” Regulus gasped, but too late. There were sounds of movement from both above and behind. His companion cursed as he stomped at the flames that were beginning to move from the dropped candle to the carpeted stair. The flames snuffed out and they were momentarily blinded. Regulus lit his wand and darted up the stairs past the girl, not wanting to fight the now inevitable duel uphill. His companion followed.  The others were not far behind, now needed more as backup than as guards._

_There were three doors on the second floor .Before the Death Eaters could choose which to enter the door to their right burst open. The face framed in bobbing wandlight and tousled gray hair was horribly familiar. Regulus stopped dead as his stomach dropped through the floor. He had visited Healer Bones at least once a year for as long as he could remember. He had always offered him a chocolate frog for being a good patient, and once, at a St. Mungo’s charity ball where he and Sirius had been bored out of their minds (as had Healer Bones, he suspected) he had read the two boys’ tarot cards._

_His companion, who had not met an old acquaintance while trying to kill him in his bed, had already started throwing curses. Healer Bones deflected the curse, which knocked plaster from the ceiling where it hit, and threw a curse of his own, blinding and electric blue. The man in the laughing mask twisted to avoid it. Regulus choked as a chalky liquid seemed to fill his mouth._

_A woman leveled her wand at Regulus’ face. Regulus had missed her entrance in his shock and did not raise his wand to defend himself. He felt a pain in his side that was Mulciber elbowing him out of the way. He parried the woman’s wand with his own and stabbed toward her face._

_“STOP!” shouted a surprisingly strong voice. The duelists did stop, and Regulus turned behind him to see the old Death Eater crouched on the stairs, holding his wand at the paralyzed little girl’s throat. Regulus glanced at Bones, who swallowed, his eyes fixed on his little daughter, who was crying silently._

_“Avada Kedavra!” the man in the laughing mask shouted._

_“Avada Kedavra!” Mulciber echoed._

_Edgar Bones’ fell to the floor with a dull thud. His wife fell close behind, their heads coming to rest inches apart._

_The old Death Eater dropped the girl unceremoniously. She slid down the stairs to the landing, still crying silently._

_There was a momentary silence, which Mulciber broke. “There’s supposed to be another kid. Black, look in the bedrooms.”_

_“Why me?”_

_“Because you,_ Young Master Regulus, _froze,_ ” _he said with a sneer._

_The other Death Eaters laughed. Regulus had not been aware that he had spoken aloud. He had to step over Healer Bones feet to get to the door on the left. It was a bathroom. Still, he opened the shower curtain for good measure. Nothing there. He walked to the next door.  He stepped very carefully, shivering with an awful sort of cold from the inside out._

_The next room was a child’s bedroom. A twin bed stood against the wall. A pair of toy knights jousted on the dresser. A small whimper came from the closet. Bones’ face froze in Regulus’ memory and he sank to his knees on the floor with a silent sob._

_Why? Why did it matter now? He was going to stay, he was going to live, he was going to wait it out. He did not kill Edgar Bones or his wife. He couldn’t have prevented their death. The Death Eaters had already killed so many, people he had never met, Muggles and wizards both. They were fighting for a better world, one where wizards wouldn’t be forced to hide who they were. No one could stop them. So what if a few people died? A better world was worth that. But no one he knew, not a kind man that had given him candy and saved two boys from dying of boredom. Not a man with two pureblooded orphan children._

_Regulus stood shakily and slid the closet door open. The little boy was in a fetal position in the corner. His wet eyes shone in the half light. He couldn’t have been more than five years old. Regulus considered taking off his mask and convincing the boy that he was trying to help, but he hated himself too much already. Instead he reached into the closet and grabbed the boy awkwardly by the waist. He kicked and struggled and screamed, but Regulus managed to keep him from escaping and covered the child’s eyes as they entered the hallway._

_“Good,” said the older Death Eater._

_“I think you should do the honors, Black,” said Casimir._

_“I should—what?” asked Regulus, taken aback._

_“The children. I think_ you _should kill them.”_

_No, no, no. He should have known this. He knew this. He knew they were going to kill the children too. That was the plan. Kill everyone in the house. Kill the children. Why had that not bothered him before? Why was he here? Why was Healer Bones dead?_

_The boy struggled more violently and began to cry like a much younger child. Regulus set him on the floor. Mulciber stunned him casually._

_“I—the children? S—Surely…” Regulus hated his sudden stutter. “The Bones are an old wizarding family. Wouldn’t it be better…?”_

_“They’re witnesses, Black,” said the man in the laughing mask. “Would_ you _take them in? You can’t pretend that they wouldn’t grow up with a grudge against the Dark Lord.”_

_“No. No, you’re right,” Regulus found his lips agreeing, but his throat felt as though he had swallowed a block of ice and his heart felt like it was trying to pump molten lead._

_He drew his wand and leveled it to the forehead of the little boy slumped almost peacefully against the wall. Regulus’ heartbeat pounded in his ears, his lips moved painfully slow._

_But the boy’s big sister chose this moment to prove she was magical. She ran up the stairs faster than Regulus would have thought possible, screaming like a banshee and breaking both the body bind and the silencing charm Regulus had placed on her. Her little fists pounded on Regulus’ thigh and her feet connected with his shins. Regulus looked down at the little blonde head, feeling the pain only as if it were a dream. Mulciber pulled the girl back by her shoulders and shouted, “Do it now, Black!”_

_Regulus turned to the little boy, the dreamlike feeling still present. He summoned as much hatred as he could, but the only person he had any energy left to hate was himself._

_“Avada Kedavra!”_

_There was scarcely any change as the unconscious little boy stopped breathing. His sister let out a sound that was half scream and half choked sob. Regulus turned to her to complete his task, but as he saw her, slumped and sobbing in despair, something in his mind snapped. He froze for a long moment, but in his panic and because the other Death Eaters were blocking the stairs he ran into what had been the Bones’ bedroom. Logic had already left him, so he took the only exit, diving through the second story window, some combination of his robes and his magic keeping the glass from cutting him. Somehow, in the seconds between his leap and his landing, with the ground rushing toward him, his instinct for self-preservation kicked in, and he Apparated._

_In reality he had found himself in the street at Grimmauld Place, but this was not reality._

_Edgar Bones sat before him in dress robes of such a dark shade of crimson they were almost black. They sat in a vast room. White marble columns, stories high, rose around the perimeter of the room. The moon shone through the glass ceiling above them. A string quartet played a waltz, and all around them couples spun, their robes, elegant and colorful, swirling around them._

_“Are you going to shuffle them or what, Reg?”_

_Regulus turned to his right to see Sirius, his head cocked questioningly to one side. He looked down to see the deck of cards in his hands, intricately patterned in Celtic knotwork._

_“Shuffle until they feel right,” Healer Bones said. Regulus did as told, cutting the deck in approximate halves and mixing them as best he could. He shuffled again and again, but the cards still did not feel right. He was so thirsty. He reached out his hand for a glass of champagne. He meant to only take a sip, but he downed the entire glass greedily. It left his throat even drier than before._

_Bones seemed to think he was done shuffling, because he took the cards from him. He cut the deck in three, then a held a hand above each in turn. The leftmost one seemed to have some quality that pleased him, because from it he began his reading._

_Healer Bones laid out the six of cups, but soon as Regulus registered the children and their chalices filled with flowers they were covered by another card, Death._

_“I wonder,” said Healer Bones, “if I should bother with any of this. You have no future, after all.”_

_“What makes you say that, Healer?” Sirius asked._

_“He killed my children,” Healer Bones said simply._

_“Reg?”_

_Regulus glanced up to see Sirius’ eyes on him, asking for an explanation. There was no accusation in them, which made it all the worse. Regulus throat constricted. He unstuck it, but couldn’t look at Sirius as he answered._

_“I… I killed his son, and I as good as killed his daughter.”_

_“No denial, eh?” said Healer Bones. “Good, good. That will make this easier.” He laid out another card below the first two. “The Devil. Notice the man and woman stand, chained and naked before Satan himself, but their chains are loose. They_ chose _to stay there.”_

_“I didn’t choose that!” Regulus objected._

_“Did you not? You knew very well the sort of work the Death Eaters did, the sort of violence they encouraged. You saved clippings of their press before you joined them yourself.”_

_“I thought it was for a purpose!”_

_“A purpose? Killing children is alright if it’s for a_ purpose _?” Bones sounded snide, but utterly calm, not at all like a man arguing against his own children’s murder. But then again, he was already dead. He laid out another card._

_“In the position of the near past, The Tower. The proverbial shit hitting the proverbial fan. But within The Tower there is also enlightenment.” Bones paused a moment, hand poised over his deck. “Really we need not go on. We know your future here. You’re about to die, drowned by a thousand corpses. Our questions concern the past.” He laid down his deck and looked Regulus straight in the eyes. “Why did you kill my children?”_

_Regulus was struck dumb. He could feel Sirius staring at him. The music had stopped, and the dancing with it, yet there were no murmured conversations, no fake laughter, no sound that large groups of people made. They were all watching him._

_“I… “_

_“I want an answer, young man.”_

_“Because the Dark Lord would have killed me if I didn’t.” Though he spoke in barely a whisper, his voice was clear in the silence of the great marble hall._

_“Then you should have died,” Sirius said, but he spoke like a man in a dream, and shook himself after he had said it._

_“Not good enough,” said Bones.” You’ll die now, not even an hour later, but not then?”_

_“I was scared, I was trapped,” Regulus protested._

_“You were a coward.”_

_“Yes.”_

_“You served a master you knew to be evil.”_

_“Yes.”_

_“By your action and inaction you killed innocents.”_

_“Yes.”_

_“And now you will die for it, when perhaps it would be better to live?”_

_“Yes.”_

_“Very well. Drink, and we’ll end this.”_

_Bones slid another glass of champagne towards him. As he drank it gratefully, a sound rang across the unnaturally still ballroom: laughter, and the clatter of little feet running in little dress shoes. Knowing before he looked up, he saw them, Bones’ children, the little girl chasing after her little brother through the unnaturally still crowd._

_“Daddy, he won’t stay put!” she shouted as she gave chase. As the boy ran around behind Bones’ chair his father snagged an arm around his waist and pulled him close. The little boy giggled._

_“Thank you, Daddy,” said the little girl breathlessly. She curtsied, playing the little princess in her frilly dress robes._

_“I’m glad you two are here,” said Bones. “I want you to meet Regulus. You’ve seen him before but you won’t recognize him, he was in his mask then.” The little boy’s eyes widened in shocked fear. He twisted away from his father to run. His sister fled right behind him with a little shriek. Regulus’ throat constricted._

_“You’ll want to catch them,” said Bones calmly. “Before your friends do.”_

_In the crowd there was movement, a flash of black robes beneath a multitude of colors._

_“I’ll help you.” Sirius moved to get up._

_Bones placed a restraining hand on his arm. “Not this time.”_

_Regulus was already running, dodging through witches and wizards that were like statues. The children’s footsteps were loud on the marble floor; the Death Eater’s were utterly silent._

_He caught up to the little girl and managed to get a hand on her trailing robe. She screamed and tried to run harder, half-dragging her little brother with her and tripping into a pair of black-clad knees. The man in the laughing mask looked down at her and raised his wand. Regulus heard the swish of robes behind him and glanced behind to see Mulciber, mask-less and grinning._

_“No,” Regulus gasped. He wanted to throw himself in front of the children, but there were two of them and only one of him, and the third was approaching. He reached for his wand, but it wasn’t there. He fell to the floor and grabbed the children. The boy whimpered._

_“Don’t do this, not again,” Regulus pleaded._

_“Only the girl is mine,” sneered Mulciber. “The boy is your responsibility.”_

_“No, not again. I won’t let you do this.” Mulciber made no reply. “Please.” Still Mulciber frowned down at him and said nothing. “Kill me if you have to, but not them.”_

_“You die later, Black,” said the man in the laughing mask._

_“You are marked and you are sworn,” the third said in his wheezy, nasal voice. “You will obey orders.”_

_“No, please.”_

_“Restrain young master Regulus, if you would please,” Mulciber requested calmly. Without pause the others obeyed, and though Regulus struggled and kicked and screamed, their grip was unbreakable. The man in the laughing mask held his arms behind his back and pulled him down. His knees cracked on the stone floor._

_“Now, as for your little girlfriend, here,” Mulciber snarled as he pulled the girl close to him. She sobbed and tried to pull herself to her brother, who was being held by the elderly Death Eater. “Be still,” Mulciber hissed as he yanked her to her feet by her hair._

_“Let her go, Mulciber,” Regulus pleaded._

_“Can’t, Black. That’s not how it happened.”_

_“Don’t kill her, please.”_

_“Don’t kill her? Then you’d like a little sport with her, hmm? That can be arranged._ Crucio.” _He flicked his wand toward the child, who screamed._

_“No!” Regulus shouted. “Don’t hurt her. If there’s anything I—“_

_Mulciber turned his wand away from the girl, who went limp and fell, coughing and sobbing, to the floor. “We have already established you have nothing to offer us, Black._ Crucio.” _The girl screamed again._

_“Stop! Please, Casimir, stop hurting her!”_

_“Stop hurting her?” Mulciber turned to Regulus again and grinned. “Very well, young Master Regulus, I’ll be sure she never hurts again.”_

_“NO!” Regulus screamed and struggled._

_“_ Avada Kedavra.” _A flash of green and the girl fell to the floor, silent, eyes still open and tears still streaming down her face. Her little brother wailed._

_“Now for your part in this, Master Black,” said Mulciber. “I’m going to let you borrow my wand. Quite an honor, really.”_

_As promised, Mulciber offered him his wand. When Regulus did not move to take it, the man who restrained him forced his hand open, and forced it close once again around the length of wood._

_“Now bring him the boy.” The elderly Death Eater dragged the boy nearer to him and the man in the laughing mask forced Regulus’ wand arm to point toward the child. Regulus struggled against him, but he was impossibly strong._

_“Now young Master Regulus, we just need two little words from you.”_

_“Fuck you,” Regulus snarled, tears streaming down his face._

_“No,” said Mulciber in a mockery of sweetness. “I’m afraid those aren’t the ones.”_

_“I won’t do it, not again. You can’t make me.”_

_“Can’t we?_ Imperio!”

_Mulciber’s voice in his head had barely suggested_ kill the child, _when he broke the curse, screaming. “I WON’T DO IT!”_

_“Very well, then.” Mulciber snatched his wand back and turned it on the boy. “_ Crucio _.” The boy fell from the Death Eater’s grasp, twitching and screaming. Mulciber held the curse for long minutes before he finally released it._

_“Let him go, please, don’t hurt him,” Regulus pleaded._

_‘Then do your part.”_

_“I can’t.”_

_“Then neither can I.” He turned his wand on the boy again, but before he performed the spell he  turned to Regulus. “Or perhaps we should do this the old-fashioned way?” He pulled a thin knife from his belt. “Gauge out his eyes and cut off his thumbs? Or do you have something to say?”_

_“No, please, I’m begging you.”_

_“I have already_ broken _you, but I need your_ compliance, _Black.” He grabbed the boy by his head, twining his fingers in his hair, and cut a thin red line across his cheek._

_“No! Stop!”_

_“No, stop, what?” Mulciber demanded._

_“No, I’ll—I’ll do it.”_

_“Very well, Black.”_

_They release him, and he took the proffered wand, but when he turned it on himself the green light did not come in a flash, but in ripples, as if through water._

He gasped and breathed in water. The reality, the present. A hundred slimy, too cold hands groped him. He shuddered. But that was okay. Death was okay. His head bobbed to the surface for a moment, and he saw the basin, glowing green like Avada Kedavra. Bare rock. Ugly place. Okay to die to leave such an ugly place. But there was Kreacher. He was ugly, too, but a friendly sort of ugly. He reached a hand out to him. His little fingers touched his. Warm. Kreacher’s eyes were wide and full of horror, which turned to hope, which turned to grim determination as he bit his lower lip, and then they were both gone.

Regulus sank to kitchen floor in Grimmauld Place, and lay there on his stomach, gasping and coughing up water. His fire was still burning, and he dragged himself toward it, needing and desiring the warmth and the dryness and too exhausted to perform magic. Kreacher gasped beside him, not sobbing like before, but eyes squinted and bloodshot, no tears left to cry.

“I told you to leave me,” Regulus said in a dry husk of his voice.

Kreacher gave a huge dry sob. “Kreacher couldn’t leave--!”

“No, no, no,” Regulus whispered. “I’m sorry. Thank you.”

They both sat there in the floor by the fire, insensible, until Regulus spoke.

“Did you get the locket?”

Kreacher nodded emphatically, and held up the heavy silver locket dangling from his wrist.

“Good, good,” Regulus rasped. “Never doing that again.”

They sat in silence for another moment before Regulus spoke again.

“One more thing, Kreacher.”

The house-elf looked at him warily. Regulus wanted to laugh, but couldn’t summon the energy. He looked into the fire instead. “Take me to Sirius. I don’t think I can Apparate.”

Kreacher nodded once and grabbed him by the arm.

They appeared, still sitting, by a non-descript green door that must be to Sirius’ flat. Regulus had never been there before. He struggled to his feet and realized he was shaking. He leaned against the door and knocked on it. No response. He knocked again, louder and longer.

“If he’s not here, I’ll kill him,” Regulus muttered. He knocked again and staggered as the door he was leaning against swung open. There was Sirius, in a pair of black trousers and a T-shirt, wand out and wary. Regulus fell against his doorframe.

“Hullo, Sirius,” he said as he grinned. “I’ve decided to quit the Death Eaters.”

 

 

 


	2. For The Greater Good

“Hullo, Sirius. I’ve decided to quit the Death Eaters.”

For a long moment, Sirius did not speak. When he did, his voice was tense, and he did not lower his wand.

“Prove it.”

Regulus’ breath caught in his throat. How could he prove that? Would his brother hex him if he didn’t respond? His eyes darted from Sirius’ eyes to thewand tip.

“Prove that you’re Regulus. Tell me something only you would know.”

Regulus breathed again, and searched his memory.

“The last time I saw you was at Father’s funeral.” His words came out in a rush and a rasp, scratching his throat as if he had been screaming, which, Regulus supposed, he might have been. “You hid with an invisibility cloak, and you told me—“

Before he could finish, Sirius was pulling him into a hug. He let go quickly “I can’t tell you how glad—you look like you’re about to fall—come in, come in.” Sirius gestured him in, scarcely noticing as Kreacher toddled in after him. He locked the door and said some incantation around the frame before running a hand through his hair and turning to stare at Regulus.

“What _happened_ to you? Wait, you should sit down, you really do look like you’re going to fall. Are you hurt?”

“I… think I’m okay,” He felt the rasp in his throat again as he spoke. “Sorry, but, do you have any water?”

“Of course, of course.” 

Sirius came back from his kitchen to find Regulus sitting on his couch, looking rather out of place in would-be impeccable black.  Kreacher stood near Regulus’ feet and shot a quick look of contempt at Sirius as he handed Regulus a glass.

Regulus drank gratefully, holding the glass with both hands in an attempt to hide their trembling. “What happened to you?” Sirius asked again.

“I… had a change of heart.”

“I knew you were thinking about it…” Sirius did not sit. The jazzed, too-much-adrenaline feeling that came with waking suddenly from a deep sleep was still with him, and the presence of his long-estranged brother did nothing to help. “I was always afraid that after some raid, when we pulled off the masks, one of them would be you.”

Regulus had nothing to say to that, so he stared at the glass in his hands. He noted dimly that it had a cartoon skunk printed on it. It failed to amuse him.

“I shouldn’t stay here long. This won’t be the first place they look for me, but they will look here.”

“What did you do that you expect Death Eaters to come down on you any second?” Sirius said with a hint of awe.

Regulus was silent. For a moment he was back in the cave with theInferi, and for another he was back in the Bones’ house, their daughter beating at his legs and their little son crying silently and helplessly. He squeezed his eyes tight. “I…” He swallowed, looked into Sirius’ face, and then looked away. “I ran. I knew I would die for running, so I decided—“

“Master Regulus told Kreacher not to speak to anyone of the family of what happened tonight,” Kreacher muttered to Sirius’ carpet. “Kreacher wonders why Master Regulus would say such a thing when he is about to bare all to—“

Sirius barked a laugh. “So _now_ I’m family?”

“Master Regulus made Kreacher swear not to tell—“

Regulus fought down a swell of irritation at the both of them. “Kreacher, be quiet.” the little elf snapped his mouth shut. “Kreacher saved my life tonight,” Regulus reproached Sirius then looked down to the little elf. “But he needs to go home before anyone misses him,” he said gently. Kreacher sunk dejectedly to the floor. “I’ll take the locket back, Kreacher. It’s best if I take care of it now.” Kreacher unwrapped the chain from his wrist and handed the locket up to Regulus, not looking at him. Regulus clasped it to his chest. “I probably won’t see you again for a long time, but I’ll be okay. Remember what I said. Don’t mention anything that happened tonight to _anyone._ Can I trust you with that?”

Kreacher nodded emphatically and said, through sniffles, “Kreacher lives to serve the house of Black.”

“Thank you, Kreacher. For everything.”  Kreacher looked up at Regulus for a moment, eyes swimming at the sincerity in his master’s voice. He made a jerky but sincere bow and disappeared with a pop.

“Are you sure his loyalty to you will win over his loyalty to mother?” Sirius asked.

“Reasonably. In any case, I don’t think he knows the significance of what we did.”

“Which is?”

Regulus held up the locket and smiled wickedly enough to do any Marauder proud. “This holds half of the Dark Lord’s soul.”

 

Albus Dumbledore strode across the lawn of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, dew creeping into his thick, woolen socks. He had already been awake, the news of the Bones’ murders fresh and heavy on his mind, when a silvery wolf leapt through his office window. He recalled the animal as Sirius Black’s patronus as it opened its mouth to speak with his voice.

“My brother has fled the Death Eaters. He’s willing to trade information for sanctuary, and he has an object that I’m sure will be of interest to you. We’re already on our way. Sorry to wake you, sir, but I didn’t think it could wait until morning.”

The lights of the castle were dark, and the moon had set. He could see only the pale faces of the two young men beyond the gate until he had nearly reached them.

“Regulus, Sirius,” he greeted them as he opened the gate. “It’s a pleasure to see you again, both of you. If you would follow me? I would prefer we speak in my office. We’ll be in some comfort and less likely to be overheard. One cannot be too careful, with school in session.” He finished these last words with a small smile directed at Sirius. Sirius nodded, but did not smile in return. He glanced at his brother, whose mouth was set in a determined line.

“I’m surprised you didn’t take that rather fine motorbike of yours here, Sirius,” Dumbledore commented as they walked.

“Apparition is harder to trace, and I didn’t think Reg here would appreciate it.”

“So that’s true, then?” Regulus asked. “You’ve enchanted a motorbike to fly? Isn’t that misuse of muggle artifacts?”

“No, actually!” Sirius answered gleefully. “There’s a bit of a loophole regarding objects used for transportation. It’s there so brooms can’t be illegal. As long as no muggle _sees_ me flying it, I can’t be held liable.”

“Something you would do well to remember,” Dumbledore commented. “Before the DMLE is forced to obliviate any more police men.”

“I was riding on the ground before the Death Eaters caught up with us. We were well within ‘reasonable danger.’”

“But not within the muggle speed limit, I’m afraid.”

The conversation washed over Regulus. Before Dumbledore had arrived at the gate he had tried to plan what he would say to him, how he would justify himself. Hopefully the horcrux would be enough of a victory for the Order, because he had very little information to give. His life now lay on Dumbledore’s mercy. Reluctant as he was to join the Order’s cause, if Dumbledore requested it in exchange for sanctuary, he would have little choice. He watched the headmaster’s long, silver hair sway in front of him. He’d had little contact with the professor while in school. Dumbledore had been occasionally forbidding, usually whimsical, always powerful. He and his friends had been so eager to join the Dark Lord, so proud of themselves for their little plans and their little tricks, all performed under the crooked nose of the Dark Lord’s most powerful enemy. They had been so stupid.

Regulus was never caught, never in trouble, but he once caught the professor’s gaze from across the Great Hall, and knew without doubt that Dumbledore _knew._ He knew who was performing dark magic in his school, and he knew who bore the skull and serpent, branded and still bloody, on their skin. Regulus had little doubt that Dumbledore would connect him to the Bones’ murders. If he didn’t tonight, if he hadn’t yet heard the news, he would soon, and he would _know._ He felt some fear and shame at that, but not nearly as much as it seemed he should. He had meant to die. When he didn’t he went to Sirius, and Sirius brought him to Dumbledore. There was simply nothing else he could do.

The three walked in a tense silence that was not broken until they reached the stone gargoyle that guarded the headmaster’s office.

“Salt-water taffy,” the headmaster said. As the gargoyle moved to allow them entrance, Dumbledore turned to the elder of the brothers. “Sirius, would you be so kind as to wait here? I would like to speak to Regulus in private.”

Sirius looked from the headmaster to Regulus, who swallowed, but nodded. “Of course.”

“Excellent,” the headmaster smiled, but with none of his trademark twinkle. “I will come back to fetch you when we are finished.”

In all his time in school, Regulus had never been to the headmaster’s office. He was impressed despite his uneasiness as he followed Dumbledore up the slowly revolving staircase and into the beautifully, if eccentrically, appointed room.

“Please, have a seat,” Dumbledore said smoothly as he sat behind his monolithic desk. Regulus did so. The headmaster studied him for a long moment. Regulus met his gaze, and sat straight in his chair. He was not sure what Dumbledore might do to him or for him, but he had already lost his home, and maybe his freedom, all he had left was his pride.

“Why have you come here tonight, Regulus?”

Regulus was silent for a moment as he pretended to weigh answers. He had planned the basics of what he would say, but the headmaster made him feel nervous, like a chastised student.

“For sanctuary,” he said simply.

“And why should I, why should the Order, give it?”

Regulus was surprised at Dumbledore’s directness, but he had an answer prepared for this question, also. He reached into his pocket and pulled out the locket. “I have stolen this from the Dark Lord.” He placed it on the desk between them. “Unless I am very mistaken, it is his horcrux. I took it tonight, expecting to die in the process, but my house-elf had other ideas. Destroy this and the Dark Lord is mortal.” Regulus quirked an eyebrow at Dumbledore, who stood, staring, at the ancient piece of jewelry. “Does that earn me my life?”

Dumbledore did not answer. “Remarkable,” he was whispering to himself. “I had long suspected something of… but this may confirm…”

Regulus felt a stir of pleasure within himself; Dumbledore was not a man often surprised. Dumbledore seemed to forget about him for a moment as he strode to one of the many fragile-looking tables that were scattered across the room. He removed one of the instruments resting on it and brought it to his desk before the locket. Regulus watched as he tapped his wand once on the device, which immediately began emitting puffs of gold smoke. The smoke transfigured itself into a hissing golden serpent, which shifted subtly into the snake-like and savagely grinning face of the Dark Lord. Regulus shivered involuntarily.

“Indeed, indeed,” Dumbledore spoke to himself as he sat once more behind his desk as the golden smoke disappeared. “You have my thanks. This will deal Voldemort a great blow.” Regulus frowned deeply at the mention of the Dark Lord’s name, but made no other response. “I should be very interested to learn how you came by it. I doubt even the knowledge of its existence was gained cheaply.”

Regulus launched into his tale. He told how the Dark Lord had requested a house-elf, how he had volunteered Kreacher for the job, and how Kreacher had returned against the Dark Lord’s expectations. When he came to the events of tonight, he hesitated.

 “I presume you were at the Bones’ tonight?”

Regulus stiffened, and didn’t answer for a long moment. When he did he spoke very carefully.

“I refuse to answer that question without legal counsel.”

He regretted his answer the second he had uttered it. Dumbledore laughed. “My dear boy, you are not the first to regret their service to Lord Voldemort, and I can only hope that you will not be the last. I do not represent the Ministry and will not turn you over to them while I believe your conversion to be genuine, which I do. It was the only event likely to cause a turning point tonight, and I won’t ask of your exact involvement. Now, please, tell me how you hoodwinked Lord Voldemort.”

Regulus took a deep breath before he continued. Dumbledore wasn’t going to have him arrested, and he wasn’t going to blackmail him. His tension left him, if not his shame, leaving him more tired than ever.

“I was resolved to die rather than re-enter the Dark Lord’s service…” He told of the promises Kreacher made, the cave, the blood, the boat, the inferi. He told of the potion.

“It caused me to relive… tonight’s events, first how they actually happened, then… twisted. I don’t remember being dragged into the water, but I remember Kreacher pulling me out.”

Dumbledore seemed to mull over his story for a moment. “Guilt, of course, an emotion Voldemort is uniquely unsusceptible to. It’s also fascinating that a house-elf should be the undoing of his defenses. We are very lucky that Kreacher disobeyed your orders. We owe him your life, of course, and I don’t think he would have been able to destroy the horcrux on his own.”

“I… hadn’t thought of that.”

“Understandable, you were operating under a great deal of tension, but the spells that can hold a piece of a soul in an object also give it considerable protection from without. I’m very afraid you would have died in vain.”

_Died in vain._ Regulus wasn’t dead, but he could so easily wish he was. He had fled his past, his future was in the hands of a man he had always feared, and had taught himself to hate. In the present, he was only tired, deadly tired, but it was more than fatigue, surely, that made his heart jump in his throat every few minutes, that wrapped a fist around his intestines every time he dared to remember?

“What will you do now, Regulus?” Dumbledore asked gently.

It was the gentleness that broke him. His throat tightened. He buried his face in his hands, trying hopelessly to hold in his tears.

“I don’t know. Hide? However Sirius thinks you can hide me. I can give you information, names and locations, but only for,” Regulus laughed, the sound hysterical. “Only for three. You can’t use me, they’re going to kill me,” he sobbed, and his next words were nearly incomprehensible, even to himself. “And I don’t want to kill anyone else.”

“You knew exactly what the Death Eaters did, yet you were still eager to join them.”

Regulus shook his head. “I thought it was worth it.”

“Worth torture and fear? Worth the death of innocents?”

“Yes!” Regulus answered fiercely.

“Then you have no regrets?”

“We were outnumbered, for a political target, for—we had to hit where it hurt! We had to get people’s attention. To end the Statute of Secrecy, to put wizards in a place of power, to end the dilution of the old lines—“

“For the greater good?” Dumbledore interrupted quietly, silver eyebrows raised.

“Yes, exactly. But the Dark Lord only wants power. He was using us. He didn’t gather the people who most desired change, he gathered those who would follow without question, those who desired blood, even if that blood was pure.”

“Are you here because you regret murdering children, or because you regret murdering pureblood children?” The disgust in Dumbledore’s voice was palpable.

“I… yes. Both. But what I regret more is, it wasn’t worth anything. It wasn’t even worth my life. I should have died eight months ago when I found out about the horcrux. I should have acted then. I shouldn’t have been a coward.”

Dumbledore passed him a square of indigo cloth. Regulus took a moment to realize it was a handkerchief, the kind action at odds with his merciless words.

“You’ve said enough for now. Dry your eyes. I know what you did, and I know what it cost you, and I’ve some idea of what to do with you now. We’ll discuss it in the morning, after you’ve had a chance to rest. Bobbin?”

A house-elf materialized on Dumbledore’s desk with a pop.

“Yes, sir!” it squeaked with an energetic bow.

“See that this young man is made comfortable in a private room, and bring him a good breakfast there in the morning—a late breakfast, I think. Do not speak of him to anyone else.”

“My lips are sealed, headmaster, sir! Follow me, please.”   

 

Sirius pushed off the wall he’d been leaning on as Regulus and Dumbledore emerged from the office, a house-elf toddling at their heels.

“So, what now?” Sirius caught Regulus bloodshot eyes. “Are you alright?”

Regulus waved him off. “Fine, just tired.”

“Thank you for waiting, Sirius,” Dumbledore said smoothly. “And Bobbin, fetch Regulus a dreamless sleep potion from Madame Pomfrey.” He directed his gaze to Regulus. “If he would like, that is?”

“Yes, I would appreciate it.” The house-elf tugged at Regulus’ robe to direct him to his bed, but Regulus hung back a moment. “Thank you, Sirius.” There was the slightest pause before he said, “And thank you too, professor.”

Dumbledore nodded graciously. The young man and the house-elf disappeared around a corner. Sirius turned to Dumbledore.

“So what did he tell you?”

“The details of what he did tonight. He also shared a few of his opinions. I think it best both stay between us. Regulus can tell you himself in the future.” Dumbledore began to walk toward the grounds, Sirius beside him.

“Are you going to keep him here?”

“Only for a night or two.”

“And then?”

“That’s up to Regulus, though I will encourage him to flee the country.”

“Will that be enough?”

“Alone, no, though I intend to employ other defenses.”

“What spells?”

“No spells.” Dumbledore chuckled at Sirius sideways glance. “I see you remain unversed in the art of deception. I don’t insult you! It’s comforting to know _someone_ with whom what you see is what you get.”

“I’m still not sure I shouldn’t be insulted.”

“You have a mind like a sword, Sirius, though sometimes a scalpel would be better suited.” He held the front door open for his former student as he spoke. “I’m sure you can foresee my plan.”

The pair walked four steps before Sirius responded. “Fake his death?”

Dumbledore didn’t respond.

“He won’t like that.”

“He’ll have little choice.”

“I’m surprised you aren’t having him work for the Order.”

Dumbledore sighed. “There’s little he could do. He’s badly placed as a spy, and he still approves of Voldemort’s espoused principles, if not Voldemort himself.”

Sirius took his turn to sigh. “I can’t say I’m surprised, though I hoped he’d… see reason.”

Dumbledore smiled, and his spectacles caught the starlight. “There is still hope for that. He’s struck a great blow for us, whether he likes it or not, and he fully intended to die for it.”

Sirius snorted. “How very Gryffindor of him.”

“Are you on-duty tomorrow, Sirius?”

“No, I’ve got the day off.”

“Good, that will give you a chance to rest up. Good night, Sirius; or rather, good morning.”

“You too, professor.” He turned toward the gates, then turned back. “Will you let me know where he decides to hide?”

“As soon as I can.”

Sirius turned again to apparate, but Dumbledore called out, “Wait a moment!”

Sirius turned back to find Albus Dumbledore’s wand pointed between his eyes. He barely had time to widen them before the headmaster spoke.

“I’m so sorry, Sirius. _Obliviate._ ”

 

 

 


	3. No Other Choice

Albus Dumbledore sat deep in thought. The pads of his fingers drummed a pattern on his desk. He varied the pattern: index finger, ring finger, pinky, middle. He jiggled his right foot, and then his left, for variety.

The horcrux sat on a table several feet away, wrapped in charmed green silk. Even this shattered and helpless fraction of Riddle had a malevolent will and Albus was reluctant to touch it or even look at it overlong. He wove his hands together, went entirely still, and finally made his decision. He stood to pick it up, careful not to let the metal touch his skin, and began to unweave the spells that held it together.

 

***

 

Regulus had enough experience with dreamless sleep potions to know their worst drawback: a brief, cruel moment upon waking in which he could believe that the previous night’s events were the dreams he hadn’t had. This morning, that moment was cruel indeed, but brief. The deep purple of the bed hangings and some subtle quality of the light filtering between them told him that he was at Hogwarts, told him that his situation was all too real. Yet somehow, as he put his feet to the cold stone he couldn’t help feeling a strange relief. He was free. As he dressed, he reflected on just how hard he must have hit bottom to feel relief at going into hiding, separated from everyone and everything from his life so far. Still, he supposed his feelings made some sense. He had done his part and had seen the worst he was likely to see. With the Dark Lord truly mortal, Dumbledore or someone else would kill him one day soon. When that happened, Regulus could start over. For now, he would wait, and rest.

The same house-elf from the night before brought him breakfast. Regulus was finishing his toast when Dumbledore arrived in his usual splendor. Regulus stood respectfully in greeting.

“Good morning, Regulus.”

“Good morning,” Regulus paused for a moment, unsure how to address him. “Headmaster.”

“Sit, please,” the professor said as he did the same in a chair across from him. Dumbledore regarded Regulus with his piercing blue gaze for a moment before he spoke. “We need to discuss your immediate future.”

Regulus nodded. “Of course.”

“Though it is your decision, my advice will be to fake your death.”

Regulus let out an uneasy breath. “How?”

“I can make arrangements that will make it appear you were killed for deserting.”

“Close enough to the truth.”

“Indeed. And, although I say it is your decision, there is little other choice, both for your sake, and for the Order’s. You know, of course, that no one has successfully left the Dark Lord’s service.”

Regulus did know. “So I’ll appear to die. What will I actually do?”

“There, I believe you have two options. You may go into hiding somewhere in Britain under a number of spells, essentially putting yourself under house arrest. Or… you may flee the country, go somewhere untouched by this conflict. You could assume an alternate identity and live fairly normally.”

“When you put it like that….”

“Yes, I have pushed you into a decision, haven’t I?” The headmaster pressed the tips of his fingers together and gave an expression of feigned innocence.

“Where?”

“Hmm?”

“Where would I go?”

“Well, I may call in a favor and afford you lodging in the States, which has a few additional benefits.”

“Additional benefits?”

Dumbledore smiled mysteriously, or perhaps that was the only way he ever smiled. “Voldemort’s talents are many, and his magic runs deep, but even the most powerful wizard has difficulty directing magic across an ocean.” He gestured toward Regulus’ left arm. “You won’t feel the mark burn, or if you do it will be only a twinge.”

“You know about that?” Regulus asked, mystified. The Dark Mark was one of the Death Eater’s greatest secrets. It had a number of enchantments on it, and disappeared after death. If the Order or the Ministry knew about it, this was the first Regulus had heard. And there was something else, something about Dumbledore’s manner that confused him.

Dumbledore made no response to his question, but smiled serenely. “How does this sound so far?”

“Good enough, I suppose. Like you said, I have little other choice.”

“Very well, then. We will need to make travel arrangements,” Dumbledore began to stand.

“Hold on a moment. I’d like to think about this. And… I have a question. A few questions, actually.”

Dumbledore eased back into his seat. “Perhaps I will have few answers.”

“Will I be able to come back? When this is all over?”

“When this is over, I suspect you will.”

“And when will that be?”

“That, I cannot say.”

“No, that’s not right,” Regulus murmured.

“Excuse me?”

“That’s not right. You’re not as happy as you should be. You know where the Dark Lord’s power comes from. You know how to undo him and you have what you need to do it. I’ve spent long enough as your enemy to know how you scheme. You should be formulating a plan to end it right now, but you’re not, and I want to know why.”

“Even if Voldemort were mortal, he rarely enters the battlefield himself,” Dumbledore said evenly. “And even if someone were to face him wand to wand, he is a formidable opponent.”

Regulus shook his head. “I don’t deny that, the Dark Lord is the greatest duelist I’ve ever seen, but you took down Grindelwald! And with the rest of the Order behind you—“

“Understand, Mr. Black,” Dumbledore interrupted, “that you have thrown yourself on my mercy, and any information I give you is only out of courtesy. Be that as it may… you are under the impression that you have made a masterstroke that will end the war. As much as I wish that were so, and though I thank you for what you did, that is not true.

“Since this conflict has arisen I have made it my business to explore the past of the wizard now known as Lord Voldemort, hoping to find any clue whatsoever as to how he might be undone. Amongst the wealth of data I gathered regarding him, I found that he collected a number of highly valuable objects, including the locket which you uncovered. What he intended for them all, I did not know, not until last night.”

Regulus’ heart had sunk to somewhere in the vicinity of the Slytherin common room. “How many?”

“At least four.”

In the process of figuring out what exactly the locket was, and what exactly the Dark Lord was hiding, Regulus had run across the procedure for creating a horcrux. The thought of making even one sickened him, and to go through that _four times_ suggested madness far beyond what Regulus expected, even after his years as a Death Eater.

“Does that include the locket?” Regulus asked.

“Yes, although there may well be others.”

“Do you know where any of the rest of them are?”

“I do not.”

Regulus fought down the urge to swear, leaned back, and ran a hand through his hair. “Is there anything else I can do?”

Dumbledore looked at him with his piercing blue eyes. “There may come a time when you are called on to fight, but for now, stay alive.” He stood. “I leave you to decide your course of action, though if we are to feign your death, it would be best if we act soon.”

Regulus sighed. “Do what you need to do. I have no other choice about that much. I just need to decide where to go.”

 

***

 

Sirius slapped the paper onto the table. The Dark Mark writhed in black and white next to a portrait of Edgar Bones and his family.His dread had turned to horror and then firmly to anger. He threw the _Prophet_ into the fire and threw a fistful of floo powder in after it.

“James!” he yelled into the Potters’ living room. “You up, mate?”

He could see only his friend's bare feet approaching before he knelt in front of the fireplace to answer the call.

“Yeah, yeah. I'm up, I'm up. No need to shout. You gave Harry a start.”

Sirius could see that he was already dressed, except for the feet. That was strange for James this early on a Saturday morning, even these days, and his expression was dark behind the reflected fire flickering in his glasses. Both young men were silent for a moment.

“I guess you heard about the Bones?” Sirius asked.

“Yeah, Dumbledore gave us a call about an hour ago.”

“No one gave me a call.”

“Well, I guess we were higher priority, what with Lily...” James trailed off.

“Oh, _damn,_ I forgot about that.” Lily was apprenticed under Edgar Bones at Saint Mungo's, and he had been her mentor in more than just the art of healing. “Is she okay?” Sirius asked softly.

“Hard to say, but not great.” James looked over his shoulder. “She's making some sort of casserole thing, to take to the family.”

“To who? I thought they were all dead.”

“Edgar had a couple of siblings. Allen, he was a couple of years older than us, Ravenclaw. And you remember Madame Amelia, don't you?”

“Oh yeah,” Sirius said slowly. “Didn't make the connection. I remember, though I could wish I didn't.”

“That's her. You have to admit she's been very helpful to our cause lately.”

“True,” Sirius admitted. “But she'll never love me.”

“Well, no one loves _you_ ,” James said with a smile. “So are you coming through or what?”

“In a minute, if you don't mind.”

“You know you're always welcome here.”

“I know. Someone needs to make sure Pete knows about the Bones first, though.”

“What about Remus?”

“I haven't seen him in a couple of weeks, and he… discouraged me from contacting him.”

Officially, Remus shared a flat with Sirius, but was away from it more often than he wasn't. Moony was always mysterious about where he had been and what he had been up to, but Sirius and James both had a pretty good idea.

“I hope he's alright,” James said quietly.

“He'd better be. Listen, do you mind if I come along to visit the Bones?”

“I don't mind, but it’s going to be just Lily and Harry. I've got to go to a brunch.”

“Ah. Hobnobbing doesn't stop for death, does it?”

“No,” James said. “It doesn't.”

“My sympathies. I'll ride over there as soon as I talk to Peter. See you.”

“Why ride when your head's already in the fire?” James asked, but Sirius was already gone.

 

***

 

_By all rights,_ thought Peter Pettigrew. _I should feel worse._ He sat on the bottom step, staring at the front door, or more specifically at the floor in front of the front door, at the paper that still lay where it landed when the owl dropped it through the mail slot. The way it was folded, he could only see part of the headline: “ _DARK MARK OV--”_ and “ _Four found dead in--”_ The snake of the Dark Mark writhed in and out of view. The clock ticked. The morning was overcast and his curtains were drawn, washing everything to charcoal gray. _I should really light a lamp,_ he thought. He didn't move.

It was a fair exchange. They gave him something he wanted. He gave something in return. He did not feel guilty, he told himself, but neither did he move to pick up the _Prophet._ Or light that lamp. Or shut up that _damned_ clock.

“Peter?”

He jerked to standing.

“Oy, Peter!”

_Firecall, Sirius,_ he thought wildly.He hesitated for a moment before croaking “Coming!” and running to the grate.

“What's going on?” he asked as he knelt.

“Bad news,” said Sirius' head. “Edgar Bones and his family were killed last night.”

“Yeah, I read it in the _Prophet,_ ” he lied.

All was quiet, except for the clock. Peter sweated.

“Edgar...” Peter said, just to break the silence. “He was a good guy.”

“Yeah,” said Sirius, turning his gaze downward. “We'll get the bastards that did it.”

Peter laughed, hoping it sounded grim and not at all ironic. “I'm sure we will.”

“Look... Me and Lily and James are going to visit Allen and Amelia Bones, Edgar’s brother and sister. You're welcome to come, if you want.”

“Yeah, that would be...” _Torment._ “That would be...” _Penance._ “I'll do that.”

 

***

 

Amelia Bones was a stout but formidable-looking woman of middle years, and at the moment her businesslike haircut looked a little frayed.

“Madam Bones?” Lily started. “We just came to say that we're really sorry about your brother and sister-in-law, and their little ones.”

“Yeah,” said Sirius. “Edgar will really be missed.”

“It's... really tragic,” said Peter.

“Thank you, dears. It's been something of a shock.” She looked around at the odd collection of young people on her doorstep, a young woman carrying two baskets, one with a baby in it, and two young men. “I would invite you in, but I'm not entirely sure who you are.”

“Oh!” exclaimed Lily. “I'm so sorry. I'm Lily Potter. I am—was—Healer Bones' apprentice.”

“Ah,” Madam Bones cracked a small smile. “So _you're_ Lily. Edgar spoke very highly of you.”

“Sirius Black.” Sirius pulled his hand from his pocket for Madam Bones to shake. “You, ah, may remember me. Unfortunately.” When he was a teenager, he and Madam Bones had had a slight legal run-in involving goblins and billywig stings. She quirked her lips in response, but said nothing. He hesitated for a moment, unsure whether to reveal his involvement with the Order and his exact connection to Bones. He dived in. “Edgar once put me back together on a billiard table when my back was split open to my spine.”

“And I'm Peter Pettigrew. I, uh, Edgar has really helped me out, and I've worked with your brother, Allen.”

“You're all Order, aren't you?” Madam Bones said, looking them over shrewdly.

“Yes,” Lily said, after the slightest hesitation. Then: “I've brought a little food for you, if you'd like? And for Allen, too, and if there's anything else we can do for you, please, let us know.”

“I thank you, and...” Madam Bones seemed to undergo a brief mental struggle before holding open her door. “Come in. Allen's here as well. I'm sure you two can talk babies. It's always good to know that life continues.”

 

***

 

“How is your wife, Mr. Potter? And your young son? I trust they are well?”

Though Abraxas Malfoy's words were polite, his tone held the shadow of a threat, and James was struck, as he often was, with the urge to punch the old man in the nose. Superficially, Abraxas Malfoy bore some resemblance to Albus Dumbledore, both being formidable old wizards with silvery hair and beards. Yet where Dumbledore stood tall and unflappable, Abraxas bent over a cane, a sneer forever etched into his wrinkled face. The snake-headed cane, along with Abraxas' emerald green robes, marked exactly where he stood on all the issues that mattered.

_Strange, how a decision made by a talking hat when we're eleven years old marks us. But then, there's no doubt where_ I _stand there, either._ James' robes were black, but with crimson cuffs and gold trim.

“Lily and Harry are quite well, thank you,” he said with cold formality. “Lily would be with me, but I thought it more important for someone to comfort Edgar Bones' family.”

“Yes, of course, exceedingly tragic. Healer Bones _was_ an upstanding member of our community.”

James noted the emphasis on the past tense without comment. Had Abraxas' son been among the wizards who killed him? It seemed likely. Suddenly, James didn't think he could remain polite much longer. “Excuse me, Mr. Malfoy,” he said. “But I'd like to have a word with...” he gestured vaguely toward a knot of wizards and witches gathered near the string quartet, and hoped there was actually one among their number he would like to have a word with.

“Potter!” called a gruff voice. James turned to see that it belonged to Alastor Moody, who was glaring at the punch bowl with beady eyes.

“Auror Moody,” James said respectfully as he sidled up next to the man.

“You know Crouch is bringing up Magical Law Enforcement Decree number 103 next week?”

“The one allowing Aurors to use Unforgivables?” James asked shrewdly.

“The same. How can I count on you to vote?”

James took a deep breath before answering. “Well, I was going to see if I could talk it down to just allowing the killing curse, and not the--”

“No!” Moody barked, startling James, and making a witch a few feet away from them jump. “No, that's not good enough,” he growled, waving a gnarled finger at James. “I'll grant you, Aurors have got no place using the Cruciatus or the Imperius. We've got no right, and no reason. But _Avada Kedavra_ should be out too.”

“Why?” James wondered. “The Death Eaters are using deadly force against you. I thought you'd be pleased. Plus, I'm sure old Abraxas will vote against it.” James tilted his head toward the bent old wizard, who was now chatting with a wizard with graying mutton chops.

Moody shook his head, making his grizzled gray hair swirl about his neck. “Don’t think that I would mind putting another bee in the old bastard’s bonnet, but is it any harder to stun a man with a wand than to kill him with it?” He paused for a moment, looking into James' face.

“No,” James admitted.

“No,” Moody agreed. “In fact, it's far easier, doesn't take the same amount of power.”

“When you put it that way....” James said slowly.

“Crouch just doesn't want to try them,” Moody said with a grim smile.

There was a time, not long ago, when that statement would have shocked James. Now he simply raised his eyebrows. “Do you really think so?”

“That I do. And I'll tell you, I can't entirely blame him. Half of the ones we bring in get let right back out. If there are witnesses, they claim Polyjuice. If they were caught in the act, they claim Imperius. If that doesn't work, they name names, and let their friends go to Azkaban in their place.” Moody took a convulsive swig from his flask. “But if they're dead, they can't get off. Sounds good, doesn't it?”

“Yes and no.”

“Exactly. You let Aurors play executioner, maybe you end the war. But you let that beast out of its cage, and it'll be difficult getting it back in. We win, and maybe this decree gets repealed. But then, maybe it doesn't. Maybe some with pro-pureblood sentiments get cursed down, even if they've got no acts of violence to their name. We lose...” Moody spread his hands and twisted his ruined mouth into a grin. “Well, you can imagine how this decree would make it all the more difficult for the survivors.”

“I see your point,” James said grimly.

“So I can count on you to vote no?”

“I suppose I would be going against my duty if I didn't.”

“Good man!” Moody said as he clapped a hand to his back. “It's a shame we couldn't have you in the Aurors, Potter. But then, good men are in even shorter supply here.” The old auror glanced pointedly about the parlor as he swung his cloak over his shoulders. “Lastly: meeting tonight. See that that gets in the right ears.” With that, he stalked toward the exit. Had Moody come only to speak to him? It was quite possible. Though he held a seat on the Wizengamot, Moody was more than content to leave this sort of work to someone else most of the time. Moody’s seat was permanent as long as he was head of Aurors, which meant he could afford that luxury. James couldn’t. Though he had inherited his own seat from his father, he would have to fight to keep it when its term ran up.

James looked across the elegant parlor at the witches and the wizards of the ministry, their families and their friends, laughing and talking and smiling their fake smiles while the war waged all around them. He sighed and steeled himself to speak to those who might be turned to Moody's way of thinking.

 

***

 

Peter turned a corner off of Diagon Alley and stepped onto Dress Circle. The wide cobblestone loop was far less crowded than it would have been even a few months ago. The grandiose Castle Theater sat empty and boarded up, and the Peerless looked all but abandoned, with only a few shabby wizards loitering near its doors. Yet the panic of the war hadn’t seemed to touch the Hesperus. Peter pressed through the sea of perfume and gauzy fabrics that flowed out its doors. In his own dress robes, he was practically invisible, just another theatergoer, though he walked against the crowd. He passed a pair of witches sniffling into handkerchiefs and Peter’s ears quirked at the mention of the young man he was here to see.

“I thought Crouch was just good-looking, but…”

“Yeah, me too, but the look on his face when just _killed_ her…”

“You had the omnioculars, I couldn’t see…”

Peter looped around the theater to the narrow alley that held the stage door. He leaned against a brick wall, trying to look casual, or at least make himself look like a fan nervous about meeting a favorite actor instead of a Death Eater nervous about being seen with his contact. It was strangely quiet here, after the bustle in the street. No one seeking autographs this time. He let himself relax for moment and jerked when the stage door crashed open.

“Peter!” Barty Crouch, Jr. said with a fondness Peter suspected was exaggerated. “Did you finally see it?”

“What?”

“The _play,_ idiot.”

“Oh. No.”

“But you’re dressed for the theatre and everything! You’ll be the last, I suppose. Even the Dark Lord was in attendance last week, did you know?”

“No, I didn’t,” Peter said cautiously.

Crouch nodded, a somewhat dreamy look coming over his face. “He came in a hood, sat in Box 4 by himself. No one knew it was him but me. He called me an inspiration, afterwards. Can you imagine?”

Peter could only gape at him. All he knew about _The Good of All_ was that it involved a Grindelwald follower going mad from a curse and killing his wife. Either he was misinformed about the plot or the Dark Lord was missing the point.“It _is_ difficult to imagine.”

“Difficult to imagine because it’s the Dark Lord or because I’m not that good?”

“Er, I…”

“Because I am that fucking good, Pettigrew.”

Crouch stared down at Peter, who didn’t dare twitch. The young actor was notoriously mercurial, which was why Peter preferred to meet him after his performances. The adoration of his audience seemed to put him in a good mood. That hadn’t always kept him from turning on Peter, however.

After a tense moment, Crouch smiled and grabbed Peter by the shoulder to shake him gently. “You are _far_ too twitchy. I’m just having you on! Anyway, to business,” Crouch said, letting Peter go and turning suddenly serious. “What do you have for me?”

“Not much. Amelia Bones is considering joining the Order.”

“That’s it?” Crouch said with some irritation. “Some old biddy is _considering_ joining the Order?”

“I just gave you Edgar Bones. I can’t give you an Order member every night.”

“Hmmph.”

“Do you have any news for _me_?” Peter asked after a moment.

“Black is dead,” Crouch said casually. “It’ll be in the papers tomorrow.”

Peter could feel the blood draining from his face. He’d only seen Sirius a few hours ago. “What? How?”

“Deserted. Spent all bloody morning trying to tail him. It was Snape that got to him, though.”

Peter breathed again. Deserted. Regulus, he meant Regulus. Peter watched Crouch closely. If Crouch found his reaction strange, he didn’t say so. “Did he… what did he do?”

“Jumped out of the Bones’ fucking window is what he did. Bugged out when Mulciber told him to kill one of the kids. Never came back. Mad, eh?”

“Mad,” Peter said weakly. So he’d killed Regulus Black, too. That made five.

 


	4. Lay Down With Wolves

Remus woke inside a tent. Not a tent as wizards were used to them, but a simple thing made of canvas, not tall enough to stand in and barely waterproof. His head ached from having nothing to pillow it. He tried to curl himself into a ball, but his thinning wool blanket wasn't enough to keep out the chill of the ground and the air both. Finally, he gave up on getting more rest and threw the blanket off to crawl outside.

He was in small city of tents—some muggle camping tents in bright, slick fabrics, some makeshift canvas or tarp like the one he had slept in. It was the gray of early morning, and most of the rest of the camp was asleep. He walked a little ways into a stand of trees to empty his bladder, then ambled back to camp. Not really having anything to do, he thought about going back into his tent, but a woman's voice hailed him.

“Ay, Remus!”

It was Vicki, sitting at the mouth of her own tent, a metal thermos in her hands. If anyone was the leader of this little band, it was her.

Remus wandered over to her and sat in a camp chair across from her. From the information he'd received before he came here Remus knew she was only in her early 30s, but her eyes were framed in deep wrinkles and her skin had a leathery quality.

“What do you think, so far?” she asked.

Remus paused for a second and let her pour him coffee in a tin cup.

“It's not what I'm used to.”

“Nah, I suppose it's not, at that. It's a life, though.”

A life of hunting and stealing. Remus was a guest for now, so he wasn't expected to work, but he knew how the rest of the band made their living. Remus insisted on calling them a band rather than a pack in his mind, even though that’s what they called themselves. They stole food, mostly, canned vegetables and luxuries like the coffee they were drinking. And they poached animals from nearby farms. Werewolves always loved fresh meat, after all. When the locals caught on, they moved.

Remus drank his coffee in silence. It warmed his throat and hands, if nothing else.

“Full moon's coming up,” Vicki said.

“Day after tomorrow,” Remus agreed.

“You going to stay? People might be more willing to hear what you've got to tell them if you do.”

Remus didn't know himself. These werewolves didn't lock themselves up on the full moon. They were better hunters when the moon was full, and for many, the meal they caught as wolves would be the best they got all month. They didn’t hunt people, not intentionally, but a werewolf was more interested in human flesh than anything else. It happened.

Remus looked into his coffee. He’d heard of divination techniques that call up images on a dark, reflective surface, but his cup didn’t give him any answers.

“If Greyback and his pack showed up here tomorrow, what would you do?” he asked her.

“Fight him tooth and nail,” she said, and squatted to snuff her cigarette in the grass. “I wouldn’t win, but I’d fight. Greyback’s disgusting. This life is nothing to run away from, but it’s not something to be fucking celebrated, either.”

“A lot of your men and women think he has the right idea,” Remus said quietly.

“That’s cuz they’re young and foolish. They decide to go chasing his tail, they’re no loss.”

“Listen…” Remus said, suddenly feeling bold. “When Greyback comes recruiting your people, and he _will,_ I don’t think he’s going to give them a choice.”

“And like I said, it comes to that, I’ll fight him, what do think I should be doing, running off to kill him first? Not likely.”

“You could join with the Order. Strength in numbers,” Remus offered.

Vicki laughed bitterly. “Order doesn’t want a pack of werewolves.”

“They do,” Remus said, with sincerity he didn’t feel. “They wanted me.”

“You may be some kind of wizard, Remus, but these pups _aren’t_ , love. You stick a wand between their eyes and 27 out of 28 days there’s not anything they can do about it. Joining the Order’s not going to do anything for them but put a target on their back. A _bigger_ target.”

“So maybe don’t join us, but please, I’m begging you, do everything you can to keep them away from Greyback. Away from Voldemort.”

Vicki hadn’t been around wizards enough to wince at the name, but she did frown.

“Listen, Remus, I like you. You’re sweet. Cute, too, but those are terrible qualities for a werewolf. You want me to respect you, you want these pups to respect you? You’re gonna need to start _snarling._ ”

“I can snarl,” Remus said, he hoped without sounding petulant.

“Then prove it to me. Hunt with us.”

“I can’t risk biting someone,” Remus said. “And you shouldn’t either.”

“We go further north for the change, and anyone who goes out when the moon is full and the wolves are howling deserves it. I sure as hell did. But you know… you could prove yourself to me another way,” she said with a wolfish grin.

Vicki had been subtly and not-so-subtly flirting with him since he got here. Remus had hoped that he could ignore her for long enough that she would give up. It only seemed to make her more aggressive.

The thing was, he didn’t want her to give up.

He had had girls that were interested in him at Hogwarts. Most female attention that might have been given to him was diverted to Sirius, or occasionally James. But Remus was polite and even-tempered, more than could be said for most teenage boys, and a certain type of girl (mostly Ravenclaws) had interpreted his quietness as deep and mysterious. Remus would have never noticed most of his shy admirers on his own, but Peter had pointed out no less than five girls that had gone over the moon for him before they had ever really had a conversation with him.

So he had channeled Sirius at his worst, walked right up to one of them and told her she was pathetic.

And that was the end of that.

But Vicki, even if she might not have been his first choice of lover, shared his affliction. The only way he could hurt her was by refusing her.

And maybe, just maybe, he could convince her to fight beside him.

So he set his thermos cup in the grass, extended a hand to pull her to her feet, and pressed his lips to hers.

As first kisses go, it wasn’t anything magical. She tasted like coffee and cigarettes. He tensed for a moment. Kissing didn’t feel like he thought it would feel, but Vicki responded with enough enthusiasm for him to forget his lack of experience, pulling him tight.

**

Sirius turned the knob of the door of the Head Auror’s office with a sense of mounting dread. He had been pulled out of drills by an Auror he didn’t know and told to report to Scrimgeour immediately. No explanation.

Sirius wished he had no idea what this could be about, but he was smart enough and imaginative enough to narrow it down to two possibilities: One, he was being kicked out of the Auror training program, or two, someone he knew was dead.

He opened the door to face his fate and was very tempted to close it again.

“Black, have a seat,” Scrimgeour said, considering him over his glasses.

Sirius pulled out one of the two small chairs across from Scrimgeour’s, he did so very slowly and carefully, because in the other one sat his mother. 

“What,” Sirius started, and found he couldn’t continue.

“I thought it best to deliver bad news only once,” Scrimgeour said.

“You thought wrong,” Sirius said, not taking his eyes off Walburga Black.

“So is this what you’re doing now?” she said, not looking at Sirius. “Upholding law and order?” She sniffed.

“Yeah, I guess that’s what I’m doing now,” Sirius said, his anger simmering.

“Please, sit down, Sirius,” Scrimgeour said again.

Sirius did, still watching his mother out of the corner of his eye and pulling the chair slightly away from her as he did. She looked the same as ever, well dressed and well made-up as she always was in public, maybe a bit more gray under her very traditional peaked hat.

“There is really no easy way to say this, so I will be blunt,” Scrimgeour said. “Regulus Black is dead. His body was found this morning on the bank of the Thames, just outside London.”

There was a long silence. The clock on Scrimgeour’s desk ticked. No one breathed.

“How did it happen?” Walburga asked.

“He appears to have been the victim of several curses. It’s difficult to say which one finished the job. The body was in… rather poor condition.”

“And where were you?” Walburga asked.

“Excuse me?” Scrimgeour asked.

“Where were you?” Walburga asked through gritted teeth. “Where were you and your Aurors when my son needed you?”

“Madam,” Scrimgeour started. “I understand that you are very upset—“

“Upset? _Upset!_ I am _livid._ How dare you. How dare _you!_ Bring me into this office to tell me that my son is dead when you killed him yourself!”

Sirius let out the breath he didn’t realize he had been holding to laugh. His mother and the head auror stared at him.

“Oh god, you actually believe that don’t you? Poor little Regulus, the picture of innocence—“ 

“Are you, you _filth,_ suggesting that my son deserved this?”

“No. No,” Sirius laughed again, but this time it sounded slightly hysterical. “But you’re suggesting that _aurors_ killed him, and not, I don’t know, that merry little band of blood purist psychopaths he ran with?”

“Why would his allies do this to him? Why would anyone?” she was crying now. God help him, it was actually hitting her that her son was dead.

The right thing to do, Sirius knew, would be to bridge the gap between them and mourn with her. Or at least to mourn separately beside her. But Sirius didn’t do that. Sirius didn’t want to do that. He wanted to twist the knife.

“So you admit it? You admit he was a Death Eater? I had my suspicions, but it’s good to finally know for sure. Of course he would follow Lord Voldemort, you always admired him, always said he had the right ideas about things. Regulus always did hang off your every word. Always longed for your and father’s approval. Such a shame he actually took you seriously and—“

“Sirius, perhaps you should leave,” Scrimgeour said.

“ _I_ should leave?” Sirius said in disbelief.

“Your mother has lost her _son_ ,” Scrimgeour said, staring meaningfully at Sirius.

“And I didn’t lose….?” Sirius started, looking between Scrimgeour and Walburga, seeing nothing but scorn on Scrimgeour’s face and nothing but hatred on his mother’s.

“You know what, you’re right,” he said suddenly, horrified to hear how thick his voice sounded as he stood. “You’re right. Not like I lost anything I didn’t lose a long time ago.”

 

**

Regulus lay on a narrow mattress in a metal box, one of hundreds on an enormous ship in the middle of the Atlantic. He idly waved his wand, carving pictures on the ceiling, barely visible in the light of a little lantern. He drew a snake, the hounds and sword of his house crest, a snitch. He animated the snitch’s wings then thought better of the whole business and erased everything. All were symbols that could be traced back to him.

Regulus flopped on his side and sighed. Thankfully he had decided to flee the country rather than hole up somewhere, because if he had to be locked up in a small space by himself like this for longer than a few days he would…

_What? What would you do?_ He asked himself. _Turn yourself in? Commit suicide? Join the Order? What?_

He didn’t know.

Dumbledore had given him a couple of travel guides for his destination. He had flipped through them, but even in his extreme boredom he couldn’t seem to concentrate.

He thought about Voldemort and his horcruxes, how Dumbledore had said there were at least three more. _At least._ Regulus wanted to cry in frustration. He almost died. He had been _willing_ to die. For nothing.

But that wasn’t all he thought about. To make a horcrux, one had to take a life, an innocent life, the life of someone who was no threat to you. He had thought that so abhorrent, when he had first researched horcruxes, when he had first started trying to understand the Dark Lord. But isn’t that what he, Regulus, had done?

Regulus sat up and dug his fingernails into his thighs.

He had killed an innocent. He had killed a _child._ Not even for a horcrux, the way the Dark Lord had done. He had done it for nothing.

And he was as mortal and afraid as he ever had been.

 

 


	5. A London Wizard in America

Regulus lay limply on a couch in a shadowed flat on the Rue Sorciers, New Orleans. He almost wondered if Dumbledore had sent him here as some sort of lesson or punishment.

It was September. At his home in London, the days had been growing shorter with a damp chill creeping into the mornings. Here, it was still summer, hotter than any place he had ever lived, with air wet and heavy as the inside of a sauna. Thunderstorms swept through the afternoons and vanished like bad dreams into still more heat and sun. The sidewalks steamed. Regulus sweated.

He had thrown open the windows (he had the remove some rectangular muggle contraption out of one of the windows to do it) but the air was so still and heavy it hardly helped.

Beyond his physical misery, he could not rightly complain about his place of exile. He was in the heart of one of the most magical cities in the world. The Rue Sorciers was Diagon and Knockturn Alleys rolled into one. On the street three stories below wizards and witches bustled, bought and sold everything a wizard could need to work any shade of magic. There were wonders to be found in every dirty backroom, and horrors hidden in every courtyard garden.

But he knew no one. He had nowhere to go and nothing to do. The apartment that was his home for the indefinite future was furnished sparsely under only a very fine layer of dust, and there was an old upright piano in the hallway. Its face was open, exposing its hammers and strings, but it was charmed to stay in tune against the weather.

Regulus wondered again if Dumbledore meant to teach him some sort of lesson. The keys were real ivory, but some had worn to reveal dark ovals of the wood underneath. He hadn’t really played in years, not since… Well, not since he’d taken the Dark Mark. When he had first arrived here, one of the first things he did was sit down at the piano. With a little coaxing, his fingers remembered scales, arpeggios, exercises to stretch and strengthen the fingers, but when he tried to play actual songs he could only get a few bars in until muscle memory failed him. He’d play the beginning of the same song again and again, willing himself to remember, but there was nothing.

Something else he had letthe Dark Lord take from him.

Regulus rolled off the couch to stand and walk down a narrow stair. In the back of this old building was a small, cobbled courtyard with gates leading out into two streets. The right one led into the Rue Sorciers, and the left into a muggle street. He took the left one, going where he had not yet dared to step without any particular destination in mind. He passed shops and closed bars that smelled like beer and vomit in the late morning sun.

He found himself beside an old park, named for some muggle or another. Broad palm leaves spilled over an iron fence, and beside it were dozens of merchants selling their wares.

Only…. Regulus slowed and stopped dead. They weren’t selling produce or jewelry or food or anything that Regulus might expect muggles to hawk on the side of the street. There were signs for psychics and palmists, astrologers and people reading tarot cards. They sat on park benches and behind little round tables and under umbrellas, some in robes and some in jeans and t-shirts.

Were these witches and wizards flouting the statute of secrecy? Or were these muggle charlatans?

“You’ve come from a long way,” someone nearby him said. He turned behind him to look. A young woman sat at a little round table, twirling a purple beach umbrella, a smile on her brown face. She wore a purple sundress, and a matching purple scarf tied back a shock of curls.

Purple was the color of magic, the color of Hogwarts when all the house banners came down. Maybe that was why Regulus wanted to trust her. Or maybe it was because she looked about the same age as him, or maybe because she was very pretty, with full lips and tilted doe eyes.

In any case, he approached her, and said, “What makes you think that?”

“Would you believe me if I said it was just a feeling?”

“No,” Regulus said.

“What can I do for you?” she asked with a guarded little smile.

“What are you offering?” Regulus asked, with a little smile of his own.

“I’ll read your palm or your cards for five, or both for eight,” she said.

“Cards. I never did trust palmistry,” Regulus said, taking a seat across from her and reaching into his pockets to pull out five galleons.

The young woman’s eyes widened for a second, but her smile deepened, so the international wizarding currency wasn’t unknown to her.

“What do you have against palmistry?” she asked as she took the money.

“I don’t like the idea that your whole life is set in your hands, there to read. Like it can never change.”

“Mmm,” she demurred. “But there are still some things you can tell by looking at someone’s hands.”

“Like my head and my heart lines are far apart and I’ve got a big break in my life line, meaning I’m going to die young,” Regulus said with a wave of his hand. “I’ve heard it.”

“I meant more like…” she gestured for him to give her his hands. “I won’t charge you for this,” she assured him.

She took his hands, and instead of looking at the palms, she closed her eyes and ran her own fingertips over them.

“Now you, for example…. Have never worked a day in your life,” she said, cracking one eye to gage his reaction to her statement. Regulus laughed. She ran her fingertips over his fingers. “But you have spent some time on a broom. And you’re right-handed.”

“Correct on all counts,” Regulus admitted. “But you haven’t told me anything I didn’t already know.”

“Oh, I don’t think divination _does_ tell us anything we don’t already know,” she said as she let go of his hands. “It just helps us realize it.”

Regulus said nothing, but sat back, waiting for her to start the reading. She handed him her deck, and Regulus noted as he shuffled that the pictures weren’t animated. That wasn’t necessarily unusual, some wizards thought throwing the unnecessary magic of animating the figures interfered with the less predictable magic of divination, and if she were also offering her services to muggles…. How odd. He had never thought about muggles being interested in this sort of thing.

“So what’s troubling you? Love? Family? Work?” she asked as she cut the deck again.

“I….” Regulus had no idea how to answer that. His problems were bigger than all of that.

“A little bit of everything, huh?” she said when Regulus’ pause went on too long. “Well, let’s see,” she said, beginning to lay out the cards. The Hanged Man, the two of pentacles… The Devil reversed, the six of swords….

Suddenly, Regulus stomach turned and it took him a moment to realize that he wasn’t in a darkened house, but on a sunny sidewalk, and that the curly-haired girl that was staring at him wasn’t a fair haired child but a dark-skinned young woman.

“Are you okay?” she asked.

“No. Yes. I think so,” Regulus said, rubbing his temple with the fingers of his right hand. “It was just… like a memory of a bad dream. I apologize.”

“Hmm,” she said, narrowing her eyes at him as she continued to lay out cards.  When she was done, she spoke again.

“You took a solitary journey across water, that part’s obvious. You threw off The Devil’s chains to do it, good on you. But now you’re waiting, suspended, afraid to act, trying to distract yourself. You acted alone, under the influence of this guy here,” she said tapping the Knight of Wands. “Someone with a tendency to charge in without thinking. You’re afraid that what you did won’t bear any fruit.”

Regulus frowned.

“And you’re going to go back.”

“I can’t go back.”

She looked at him and let out a breath through pursed lips, considering him. “There is a little theater that goes into this line of work, so usually I would say: _You must. To face your destiny.”_ She looked him straight in the eyes and wiggled her fingers spookily. _“_ But you don’t seem like the type to appreciate that much.”

They were both silent for a long moment. Regulus looked at the cards in front of him. There wasn’t much other way to interpret what he saw, except that this young woman was being rather generous in interpreting Judgment as his destiny and not his doom. Some might complain that the spread told more about the present than the past, but Regulus had done enough divination himself to know that there was no hope of predicting the future if one didn’t have a clear view of the present.

“Not today,” Regulus said.

“Hmm?” the young woman asked as she began picking up her cards.

“I won’t be ‘facing my destiny’ today.”

“I could have told you that,” she said with a wink. “Anything else I can do for you?”

Regulus realized he wasn’t making any move to go. “If it’s not too presumptuous…” he started.

“It is, but go ahead,” she said.

Regulus laughed nervously, but went on. “I’m alone here, I don’t know the city and I don’t know how long I’ll be here. Is there any chance you might…. I mean, I would be honored if… you would show me around?”

“You asking me out on a date?” she asked.

Regulus wasn’t sure himself. He felt reckless, unsure. He knew nothing about this girl, except that she was a witch and a decent cartomancer. He could never have done something like this at home.

“Yes,” he said, hoping he sounded more sure than he felt. “If you would like for it to be. I would like for it to be.”

She narrowed her eyes at him for a long second. “I accept,” she said finally.

Regulus grinned at her.

“Don’t flatter yourself too much just because I’m taking pity on you,” she said as she tapped her deck of cards against the table. “If I’m going to show you around I’m at least going to get a nice dinner out of the deal. You’re clearly loaded.”

Regulus cough-laughed. “The cards told you that, did they?”

“No,” she said. “Five galleons is a mite steep for a tarot reading. I meant five dollars. You didn’t even flinch.”

Regulus supposed he couldn’t argue with that. She stood and started tugging the cloth from her little table.

“Wait, are we going right now?” Regulus said, startled.

“May as well. Now move so I can pack up. My name’s Genevieve Dupree, by the way,” she said as she collapsed her umbrella and folded it under her arm.

“Reginald Crow,” Regulus lied smoothly as he held out his hand. He hadn’t been sorted into Slytherin for nothing.


End file.
